


You only go down

by asifcaves



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dry Humping, Eventual Smut, First Time, Gordon's time in the army, Harvey Bullock character study, Harvey's totally in love with Jim, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asifcaves/pseuds/asifcaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing Harvey's never known: what's best for him. Still, he could do a hell of a lot worse than James Gordon.</p><p>Or, how Jim crashed into Harvey like a semi kissing a tricycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I identify way too much with Harvey for my own good, and so I can't help but see him as a man who reaches for things better than himself.  
> Also, this was written on my phone so let me know if you catch any mistakes.

It's not like Harvey's never been with a man before. Not that he'd ever use the term "been with," but he's fucked a couple. When he's been drunk and stupid, when he hadn't had a good lay in too goddamn long.

It's quick and easy, and he doesn't have to be gentle, shit, he doesn't have to even talk if he doesn't want to.

Hot, wet, and tight, and so animalistic that he practically snarls when he comes, hands braced on the brick wall of some alley somewhere and the guy stifling moans beneath him.

Mostly it's something he does when he's between women, or doesn't want to pay for it with one of his regulars.

Point being, he doesn't make a big deal out of it. It's just something he fucking does. A way to blow off steam, or hell, just a way to get blown.

Thing is, Harvey's been noticing Jim.

A bit.

Not like he's got a crush on the kid, or hell, even likes him all that much. Just little things, like the particular color of Gordon's eyes in the admittedly rare Gotham sunlight.

The curve of his ass, the hard corner of his jaw.

He thinks about pulling Jim's meticulously pressed shirt out of his pants, putting his hands on the broad expanse of stomach, back. Bending Jim over and sliding into him slow, Jim gasping "fuck, fuck" filthy and red mouthed underneath him.

It ain't gonna happen, Harvey knows, because he's not a complete fucking idiot.

He just toys with the idea, jacks off to it sometimes.

It's not that serious.

He tells Fish about it though, the last time they're together.

"I'd fuck him," he says, when Mooney mentions Gotham's resident white knight in passing.

She laughs brightly, puts those shapely legs in his lap and whispers, "Guess you'll have to settle for me instead."

He tamps the 'Jim thing' down though, keeps it under wraps. Becomes friends with the kid, gets used to him.

Lets himself be pulled into fucking harebrained scheme after harebrained scheme, because something about Gordon sticks, makes him want to be better again, like he used to be.

And if he's somehow, quietly, come to the realization that he'll die for the kid, that he'll follow Jim into hell if he's asked, well nobody really needs to know either way.

-

The first time, it goes down like this.

It's after Barbra slithered into bed with that horse-faced bitch, after Gordon's short lived romance with the loony bin doctor fizzled out.

He'd come over with good whiskey and manhandled his way into Jim's apartment, not that Jim put up much of a fight.

Harvey was near lit before he got there, nerves shot and feeling like his hands were gonna shake themselves off his wrists.

He'd drank to calm down, drank so he could sit next to Gordon in the dark and not be rock hard and so full of longing that he's practically drowning in the shame of it.

When he'd got there and found Gordon barefoot and in a loose t-shirt, he'd starting drinking again.

By the time Jim finished off the bottle, they were both completely gone, Harvey's coat stripped off, Gordon slurring every other word.

"What I don't get-understand I mean, what I don't-"

Harvey flaps his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, what you don't get, what?"

"I mean, I didn't know. I didn't know she liked girls, you know, like she was-she did that kind of stuff."

They're both slumped on Gordon's couch and Harvey feels himself stiffen, realizing that the territory Gordon has wandered into could get real uncomfortable for him real quick.

"Uh huh," Harvey says.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that- I mean, it's just that, I told _her_."

"You told her what?"

Harvey had been preemptively spacing out, watching the line of Jim's throat, sure Gordon was going to launch into a well meaning tirad about "just not getting the whole gay thing", but he'd snapped back to the conversation.

Gordon shifted, crossed and uncrossed his legs.

"Told her what, Jim."

Harvey nudges him with his shoulder in a way he hopes is appropriately chummy.

"Nothing," Gordon says, wipes his hands on his pants leg. Avoids eye contact.

"Just, during my tour, you know, there was," he passes a hand over his face. "A couple of times me and this-this guy- Just...it got _lonely_."

Which of course gives Harvey a semi damn near immediately.

He's wasted and half hard and now Gordon is saying he's fucked around with men before and so what the hell else is he supposed to do?

"Are you lonely now?" He says, and he hears how hoarse he sounds.

Jim eyes slide to him, turning his head slow so they're looking straight into each other's faces.

Harvey puts his hand on Jim's upper thigh and squeezes.

Jim's eyelids flutter, and when Harvey moves his hand to the hollow where Jim's thigh connects to his groin and squeezes again, Jim's eyes close altogether. He groans.

Gordon's Adam's apple bobs, once, twice.

"Yeah," he says, barely a whisper. "Yeah, I'm lonely now."

Harvey reaches over and grips Jim behind the knee, maneuvering his leg up so that it curves around Harvey's waist. He shifts them so that they're facing each other, Jim half straddling him already.

Gordon is flushed breathing heavy even though they haven't even done anything yet, and all Harvey can think is that he probably isn't going to last very long, that this probably isn't going to end well, and _just shut up shut up let me have this please_.

He takes Jim's face in his hands and kisses him open mouthed.

He doesn't think he's ever kissed any of the men he'd fucked, doesn't think he'd ever wanted to, but Jim's hands are suddenly fisted in his shirt, dragging him in close so that they're pressed tight against each other and Jim is biting his lip, sliding their tongues together so sweetly Harvey thinks he could cum from just this.

He pushes Gordon back down onto the couch and presses in on top of him, grinds down hard between Jim's legs and he's rewarded with a harsh, gasped, " _Harvey_."

If Harvey had harbored any lofty ideas about drawing anything out, they're discarded when Gordon hooks a leg around Harvey's lower back and uses it to bring Harvey down against the thigh he's slipped between Harvey's legs.

The friction is enough to make Harvey's eyes roll back in his head and then they're kissing again, filthy and rough and grinding against each other like teenagers.

Gordon's calf is draped over Harvey's ass and the heat radiating through him from the contact causes him to speed up, rubbing against Jim's thigh like he's never been laid before in his fucking life.

He brings a hand down to cup Jim's hardness through his pants, and Jim arches into him, digs his nails into the hair at the nape of Harvey's neck like he's scrambling for purchase.

Gordon slides his free hand under the collar of Harvey's shirt, palm hot on Harvey's back, slick with sweat.

Harvey moves his mouth to Gordon's neck and kisses-bites-sucks at the tender skin there and Gordon says " _oh_ ," half-gasp half-growl, "god... _Harvey_ ," voice breaking on his name and practically whining with want.

Harvey just hears his own shaking breath gasping in and out, unable to think past a litany of " _Jim, Jim, Jimjimjimjim_ "'s and occasionally a sort of traitorous "oh god, I've wanted this for so _long_."

Harvey knows he's close to losing it and Jim's panting, practically choking on it, "just-jus fuck, I need-please-," Harvey's too fucking happy to oblige, flicks open Jim's belt buckle, slides his hand into Jim's pants, and fists his dick tight.

Jim makes a low needy sound and palms Harvey through his pants and when Gordon bites down on the web of skin between his neck and shoulder, Harvey cums with a groan that reverberates it's way through his chest.

It takes two rough tugs and then Gordon's over the edge too, a noise halfway between a whimper and a sob escaping his open mouth.

There's a beat where Harvey lets himself come down, removes his hand, slick with Jim's cum, from Gordon's pants.

They're both breathing heavy.

Slowly, Harvey maneuvers himself up into a seated position.

Gordon hasn't moved, still flat on his back, eyes shut.

"We shouldn't have done that" he says at last.

He hasn't opened his eyes, like he can't bare to look at Harvey.

Harvey wants to strip Gordon's clothes off slow, to map out his body with his hands. He wants to stay two, three days in bed with him, fucking and trading secrets, the way he had with his first girlfriend when they were falling in love.

"Yeah," Harvey says, "I know."

When he leaves he looks back long enough to see Jim curl into himself, turning over onto his side, back facing the door.

Harvey doesn't look back again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where I'm going with this at all, but here's a bit about Jim.  
> For those of you who recognize the name "John Diggle," kudos. It's my little wink and nod to the other superhero show on tv right now. Plus, I like to think he and Gordon would like each other.

In the army, Barbra wrote him every month.

He replied to her when he could, sometimes jotting off a note here and there, a scrounged postcard he thought she might like.

Usually he ended up sending her more than she sent him, but that was fine.

They talked about banal things, jokes he'd overheard in the mess hall, the sunrise over the desert, playing soccer with the local children.

She told him of their apartment, open and inviting, the dinner she'd burnt, of seeing a blue jay in Gotham park.

He knew there weren't bluebirds in Gotham, not anymore, but he appreciated the sentiment.

In retrospect, maybe that was why they'd fallen apart so quickly after he got back.

They only knew how to lie to each other, how to gloss over the the chipped edges. Neither of them knew how to carry the other's load, because they had invested too much time in convincing themselves there was nothing _to_ carry.

Somewhere in those bright hot years that still melt together in Jim's memory, he'd met John Diggle.

Diggle had transferred to Jim's base and made a name for himself in certain circles.

Word was he was good with his mouth.

Jim never paid much attention to these whispers, he understood, objectively, that men got lonely out there in the desert, made choices to soothe their aching souls however they could.

He'd never consciously thought of himself as lonely; he had Barbra's letters, and could take care of his needs with one hand as adeptly as he'd had since he'd fumblingly found himself in the early days of puberty.

He finds himself eyeing Diggle from afar, taking in the man's broad shoulders, his steady hands, his big white smile.

He watches because he's overheard some of the men muttering slurs, threats.

He watches because he's ready to step in, put a stop to it.

One night they run a recon mission, a thing simple enough, and he and Diggle are flat on their stomachs on the hard earth next to each other.

"You're Jim Gordon," Diggle says.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Jim says, which draws a lopsided grin out of Diggle.

"You know, by chance, what your reputation is?"

"No," Jim admits, because he doesn't.

He's friendly, but he doesn't make friends.

"They call you the saint in the sand."

"Huh. The demigod in the desert?"

He gets a laugh for that.

"Something like that. My friends call _me_ Dig."

Jim gives him a sly look, glances at him from the corner of his eye.

"We friends now?"

"If you want, if you think your pristine reputation will survive it."

"We're friends. We gotta humanize me somehow."

And Jim is grinning like he hasn't in god knows how long.

They share a smoke when they get back to the base, and when Jim shakes his hand, Diggle clasps his wrist lightly.

Jim burns at the contact.

They talk sometimes, on and off, when they pass each other in the halls.

Sometimes they eat together, sometimes not.

Diggle seems careful around him, like he's walking on eggshells.

Jim wonders if he thinks Jim doesn't know about _his_ reputation.

Then, Jim gets back from a mission that went wrong, that got a few people killed, and he's practically dead on his feet.

Bone tired, tender in all the wrong places.

It's dark out, and he's painstakingly making his way back to his barracks when a figure walking towards him appears from the gloom.

"Jim."

It's Diggle, cigarette in his mouth, looking strangely like salvation.

"Hey," Jim says.

"I heard about what happened. It's a bitch. You okay man?"

Diggle puts a hand on his arm, and Jim feels weak, so weak, and so lonely and so small.

He puts his hand over Dig's and he swears to god he doesn't have an agenda, an ulterior motive, he just wants to touch someone's hand in the midst of all the darkness, the death, and the needless blind pain.

He looks up at Diggle and then Dig is crowding in on him, pushing him back into the shadows and against one of the barrack brick walls.

"What are you-" Jim starts, but Diggle puts a finger to his lips.

He unbuckles Jim's pants, unzips them and then kneels, presses his mouth to the skin right above the band of Jim's underwear.

Jim, feeling the brick against his back, realizes what's happening.

There's a moment, right before Dig pulls down his briefs, when he considers stopping him.

Shoving him away, shouting at him about Barbra, about their life together, but that life is so far away from him now, and he's so _tired_ -

and then Diggle takes him into his mouth and there's only that.

Only heat and wetness, Jim's hands at the nape of Dig's neck, fisted in his shirt collar.

He has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from shouting out, to stifle his moans.

Dig keeps humming pleased little noises in the back of his throat and Jim wants them to be touching everywhere, skin to skin.

He doesn't last long.

Diggle gets him off with a long suck and a swallow, and Jim is left panting against the wall.

Dig zips his pants up for him, re-buckles his belt, and rises to his feet in front of Jim.

Jim's not thinking when he steps forward, kisses Diggle and pulls him into his chest, sliding an arm around his waist and placing a hand at his jaw.

Diggle only hesitates for a moment before he kisses back, and then they kiss slow, like they have all the time in the world.

When they break apart, Diggle steadies himself with a hand on Jim's hip.

"I didn't know you were gay," he says, a little breathless.

Jim blinks at him, starts to shake his head as he says "I'm no-"

Diggle immediately extricates himself from Jim's grasp and sighs a little, nods his head.

He looks resigned, or maybe just tired.

"Look Jim, I've blown my fair share of straight guys while I've been here. Not one of them has ever kissed me after."

Jim can't think of anything to say to that.

Diggle tosses a parting shot over he shoulder as he walks away, "When you think of a retort, you know where to find me."

It takes Jim two days and two nights, during which he feels he might die if Diggle doesn't touch him again, turning the thought " _christ if I'd liked men too all along surely wouldn't I have known it_?" over and over in his head.

He finds Diggle alone on his bunk, agitated, absent-mindedly flipping through the pages of a magazine Jim figured must be a year old at least.

He barely looks up when Jim enters.

"If you're here to reassert your heterosexuality, save it. I'm not in the mood. I get it, you're not gay, how dare I even suggest that you might be, you're saving yourself for your darling Sue Ellen or whom the fuck ever back home. I've heard it all before."

"I'd." Jim clears his throat, tries again. "I'd like to return...the favor."

Dig looks up, a smirk sliding across his face.

"Oh, Well. That can be arranged."

\---

Jim discovers that he likes John Diggle, regardless of what he can do with his mouth, his hands, his cock.

He likes his voice, his sense of humor.

He likes that at dinner Dig has to cut all of his meat up into bite sized pieces before he can eat any of it.

The two of them are never without something to bicker over, and Diggle is ridiculously competitive, pulling Jim with him into all sorts of stupid bets and meaningless wagers.

Jim can never keep his hands off him, always finding some excuse to pat or poke or prod or brush up against Dig, like an infatuated kid.

When he thinks about how obvious they must have been he cringes.

He got shit for being so chummy with Dig, got bumped into more roughly in the halls, heard his name muttered low and disgusted, got more dirty looks than he could count.

Jim barely noticed, high somewhere in a dreamy world where they could continue like they had been, where Jim could come home to someone warm and smiling in the night.

In the end, it's Jim that gets transferred.

He has the rest of the day and night and then he'll be a hundred miles away, which may as well be two thousand.

He refuses to talk about it, even when Diggle tries to grab his hands and get Jim to look him in the eye.

He says "Jim, _Jim_ " so kindly that Jim thinks he might scream from it, and so he just says, "stop, please" and mercifully Dig does.

That night Jim sucks hickey after hickey into Dig's thighs.

He makes Diggle fuck him until he's sore, just so he can have something to hold on to, something that says it was all real, that it mattered.

Two weeks after he transfers he hears Diggle was shot and killed on a supply run.

The only thing Jim can think is that maybe Dig was still faintly bruised from Jim's mouth, that maybe he died with some of Jim with him, still marked by Jim's body.

When he comes back, he tells Barbra an almost blasphemously edited version.

He never says Dig's name. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's comments are so kind, I appreciate the hell out of you people. Glad you like the fic, I'll keep the chapters coming as long as I can stay inspired. 
> 
> In this chapter, Harvey's his own biggest critic. Kind of a short, filler chapter, I'm not completely happy with it, but it is what it is.
> 
> More to come!

Harvey's a fuck up, he's always been a fuck up.

Always too lazy or too stupid to expend the necessary effort, too dedicated to preserving his carefully crafted facade of disinterest, of surly, aggressive detachment.

Thing about him is, Harvey never takes kindly to giving a shit.

Giving a shit tended to end with him in some shithole somewhere, coke on his nose, drunk and puking into a filthy sink in the bathroom of whichever bar he'd decided to step into for the night.

When he leaves Jim's apartment he doesn't go straight home.

He's mostly sobered up, from the sex or maybe the abrupt way it ended, and the guilt, shame, and abject horror of what he's just done have started to set in.

_"Are you lonely now?"_

Good Christ.

He has to double over in the mouth of the alley by Jim's apartment, retching, sick embarrassed at his own stupidity, his pathetic, fumbling attempt at fucking _seduction_.

He can feel how hot his ears are, flushed with the humiliation of it all.

He can't believe he's doing this.

He can't fucking _believe_ he's _literally_ this stupid.

Stupid alcoholic old dog, graying around the edges, going to fat, thinking he's slick or, god forbid, _desirable_ , dry humping his young, hot partner and thinking they're gonna what? Ride off into the sunset together?

And all of these things on top of being stupid enough to be so fucking torn up about it that he's blushing in mortification.

At least, by some miracle twist of fate, he hadn't said anything too damning.

No "hey Jim, I think you've really thrown me for a loop here" or "I feel like I've been hit over the head when I'm around you" or "I think I maybe love-"

Jesus.

A truck lumbers by, headlights painting the alley bright and ugly, and Harvey counts up in his head _"one, two, three, four, now's your chance to jump you complete fuckwit worthless goddamn asshole-"_

He doesn't jump because above all things Harvey is a coward.

Plus, he's not actively suicidal, not yet, but he thinks bitterly,  _"who knows what kind of lows I'll sink to in the next twenty-four hours."_

He thinks, _"I fall much further, then, maybe I reconsider. Maybe I find another truck."_

He doesn't go home because he has a gram of cocaine he'd nicked from evidence shoved into a hole behind the toilet tank, two more bottles of whiskey in the cupboard, some vodka, what's left of a six pack, a swallow of tequila, and the Crown Royale he'd treated himself with a week ago when they didn't die and he _so_ thought they were going to.

Harvey's lived with himself long enough to know when he's liable to make choices dangerous to his health.

He knows that coke ain't pure.

He settles for walking the streets, up and down, wearing a hole in one of his already threadbare socks.

If he hadn't fallen so out of Fish's good graces, he'd have probably gone to her, but then he remembers that Fish is gone, slipped out of Gotham like a shadow, and that he has no one else.

Harvey just walks, up and down, until the sun starts bleeding into the sky and he feels like he can go home and fairly reliably not OD.

The shower in his filthy studio apartment is too small for him, the place originally designed with co-eds in mind, but the heat from the steam feels good.

It takes a gargantuan effort, but Harvey manages to keep himself from cringing when he steps out of his pants and sees the stain in the crotch.

Maybe he'll burn them later.

He could make a day of it, get wasted and burn clothes, except not inside the apartment, which he'd done once and then never again.

He feels like shit when he gets out of the shower, but he has the day off so at least he can go to bed.

...He doesn't end up going to bed, of-fucking-course, because he's a fucking masochist and apparently deems watching the travel network and finishing an entire sleeve of thin mints more important than shutting his goddamn eyes for half a second. 

Travel network, it turns out, is safe. There aren't any soft eyed detectives on the travel network, and it's nice because he doesn't have to think at all, just doesn't have to think, just doesn't think, doesn't think, doesn't think.

If he thinks about it he's going to have to slam his head into the dry wall, or go out and pick a fight, break bones and get a black eye for his trouble.

Least travel channel teaches him about the pyramids.

He's a coward, but he already knew that.

Blessedly, he eventually falls asleep, the tv fading into white noise, the living room painted in stripes from the light filtering through the cracks in the blinds.

He dreams of girls and guns, rivers of muddy water, the laugh lines around Jim's mouth and the sound he'd made when he came.

Then darkness, and nothing except the bitterness, and the shame - but that, at least, Harvey's used to. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, your comments are really touching, thinking of you guys give me the push I need to continue writing!  
> \---  
> In which Harvey goes too far.
> 
> Next chapter's from Jim's point of view!

Harvey lived most of his childhood in a shit neighborhood, a place where people didn't so much slip through the cracks as tumble down them head first, like tripping into a ravine.

He'd grown up real fast.

A smart, mostly savvy kid could do well for himself in that kind of environment, and he did, for all the good it brought him.

He mostly sold dime bags of pot, but sometimes he ran the harder stuff for the older boys, not because he was well liked or even particularly trusted, but because he was small and quick enough to avoid most folks' notice.

That age, he'd been desperate to get laid.

Mostly for the respect he'd imagined it'd bring him, for the bragging rights.

He'd seen Playboy spreads before, and he was real interested in girls' tits, how they bounced, how they felt, and what all the fuss over them was about.

His first time had been with an older lady, a much older lady.

She was a friend of his mother's, a tall, slender woman who wore Lycra track suits and smelled like peppermint.

She'd always kept a gimlet eye on him when she visited his mother, and then one day, out of the clear blue sky, she'd asked him if maybe he'd like to come over one day and have sex.

He'd said I sure would, like he was fucking Opie on the goddamn Andy Griffith show, _aw shucks_ and _gee whiz, lady_.

He'd been fifteen.

He remembers being so nervous on the way to her house, stomach roiling, sweating with the anticipation of it, ignoring the vague sense of dread.

He'd felt so sick by the time he'd got there that when she'd opened the front door he'd puked in the bushes that framed her front stoop.

Harvey's intimately familiar with the feeling.

He thinks if Gotham PD had bushes he'd be blowing chunks into them right now.

Instead he's slouched in his desk chair, foot tapping, downing his third cup of coffee and watching the door like he's waiting to be marched in front of a firing squad.

Gordon's not late; Harvey's at work early for what might be the first time in his entire life.

Sarah keeps sneaking glances out at him from her office window, too perceptive for her own damn good, though he knows he's probably gray in the face and much too obvious.

Dread lays coiled in his gut like a cobra ready to strike.

Eventually he starts playing solitaire on his ancient desktop computer just to have something to do with his hands.

"Morning," comes from behind him.

Fuck. Strike him dead goddammit.

He decides, spur of the moment, to go for jovial.

Harvey spins around in his chair and opens his arms wide.

"Yo, Jimbo! Glad you decided to join us all today, it's three past, I had started to figure you for playing hooky."

Why does he sound so loud?

He thinks he's gotta reel it in before he starts twitching.

Jim cracks a tired smile, shoulders off his satchel and dumps it on his desk.

"Wish you greeted me like that every day," he says, "I think two days ago you just grunted "fuck you" at me from under your coat."

"I was feeling delicate that morning, Steel Magnolias was on the night before."

"You more of a Truvy or a Clairee?"

"I'm offended you even have to ask."

They're both grinning at each other, but Jim looks away first, glancing down, smile slipping off his face slow, like he's trying to play nonchalant.

Harvey feels his stomach clench.

Gordon sits and absently scratches at a mark on his desk with his thumbnail.

"You feeling okay?" he says at length, voice low.

"Hungover."

Jim grunts in agreement, "Yeah, me too."

Harvey wants to look around the room, wants to start fiddling with paperwork, but he's frozen, he can't stop staring.

He knows, he fucking knows Jim's about to address it, here, at their desks, in the fucking precinct.

Maybe Harvey should stand up, address the room, "... _and just since all you crooked fucks didn't have the pleasure of overhearing the act itself, we'll analysize it in great detail for you now!"_

Jim leans across his desk, his eyes are very blue.

"We gonna talk about it?"

At least the kid is keeping his voice down.

"Talk about what?" Harvey says, stalling, glancing around for exit routes.

The look Gordon gives him is deeply unamused.

"Oh right, yeah," Harvey deadpans.

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't want to talk about it," Jim hisses.

"What?"

He says this very loudly.

It's Gordon's turn to glance around the room.

He wheels his chair to the end of his desk and waves Harvey over with one hand.

Harvey, bemused, rolls over to face him and comes to a stop inches away.

Their knees are nearly touching.

Jim leans forward again and repeats, "I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't?" Harvey hisses back, "You're telling me you- _YOU_ don't want to talk about it? Jim, you remember we talked for an entire four hour stake out about every goddamn aspect of Barbara's -what?- two sentence note to you and you're telling me you don't wanna-"

Someone across the room coughs and the both of them bolt upright in their chairs.

A second cough alerts them to the fact that it's Maxwell, a fat beat cop who hacks into tissues so violent and so often Harvey half thinks he's got tuberculous. 

Satisfied they're not being signaled to tone it down, Gordon leans in again first.

"Yes, I'm telling you I don't want to talk about it. We were drunk."

"Yeah." Harvey says.

"It's  _been a while_ for both of us." 

He crosses his arms, nods for Jim to go on. 

"We were just...helping each other out."

Harvey laughs.

"Goddamn it," Jim snaps, moving to stand up, "if you're not going to take this seriously-"

Harvey grabs his arm and pushes him back down.

"Hold it, Jesus, I'm taking this seriously Gordon, alright, don't get your panties in a wad."

Honestly, it's a decent tact to take.

Just two good buddies, lending each other a hand.

It would hurt if he wasn't still so incredulous.

All the moves he could make, and Jim goes for _macho posturing_.

That's supposed to be his line.

"This isn't easy for me, Harvey."

"Yeah I'm sure, wonder boy. Don't worry, you know I'm always real eager to help out when anybody's in need."

"Don't do that, I just meant," he scrubs a hand over his face, "that it, it didn't mean anything. You're my friend-"

"Right. I am," Harvey practically snarls, "is that how they do it in the good ol' U S army then, Jim? Bunch of 'friends' in a circle jerk? Was the last guy that got you off your _dear friend_ too?"

Jim reels back as if he's been slapped, on his feet in two seconds flat, his chair toppled to the floor with a clatter.

The place goes dead quiet.

Jim's chest is heaving like he's been running for miles.

"Go to hell Harvey," he says, quiet. Turns, walks steadily towards the front door.

"I'm already there," Harvey yells after him.

The only reply he gets is the slam of the front door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I appreciate everyone's kind comments!
> 
> Anyway, this one is another short chapter, but we're inside Jim's head this time. I promise things will heat up again soon, stay tuned!

Afterward, Jim laid on the couch for hours, barely moving, still sticky with his own cum.

A prickly sort of dread moved in his gut, a sinking feeling of dismay so cold he'd felt like he'd swallowed a snowball.

When Jim was thirteen, he'd found a Hennessy Cognac ad in one of his mother's magazines.

The glossy photo showed a partially undressed couple lounging in front of a fireplace, tumblers in their hands, bodies lit by the warm light of the fire.

Flushed, heart beating quick, he'd ripped the page out, closed his bedroom door and slid under the covers, holding the picture under his nose to pore over.

His father had found him like that, furiously jacking off, his eyes flitting from the curve of the man's bicep to the soft line of the woman's back.

He'd stopped near immediately when the door opened, but there was little doubt what he'd been doing, blushing and breathless as he was.

His father had calmly walked across the room and taken the picture from Jim's slack grip.

Then he'd said, in his booming sergeant's voice, "I'm disappointed in you, James," and Jim had felt like he'd been doused with ice water.

Sometimes when he saw a bottle of Cognac in the liquor store he still felt the residual effects of that afternoon, the echo of long ago shame.

He's certainly ashamed now, cold all over with it.

One word from Harvey and he'd fallen apart, rutting into Bullock like he'd never been felt up before, like he was desperate for a little affection.

He thinks, _"What the hell were you thinking?"_

He thinks, _"You're in Gotham, not that fucking -_ wasteland- _anymore, but you're still at war."_

He thinks, _"You will not do this to yourself again,"_ over and over until it's the only thought he has left.

He'd gotten used to Bullock.

He'd gotten used to turning around, finding Harvey covering his ass, Harvey knocking him out of the way, Harvey picking him back up.

Both of them talking through cases at their desks, flinging fries at each other after hours slumped in their patrol car on a stakeout.

Harvey's his partner, his friend.

Even if he comes begrudgingly, even if he complains the whole way, he still comes, he still follows Jim into firefight after firefight, one suicide mission after another.

Jim's used to the world narrowed down, gunshots popping like cracklers on the Fourth of July, him and Harvey ducking for cover, laughing high on adrenaline and Harvey snarling _"You've killed us you son of a bitch, thanks Jim oh thank you so much-"_

You will not do this to yourself again.

Jim's a man who only needs to learn a lesson once.

\---

Now he's on the street, breathing hard, face flushed and hands shaking, moving through the crowd with his head down.

The rational part of his brain keeps trying to point out that Harvey didn't know, that he couldn't have known- but Jim's so blind with rage it scarcely registers.

His " _dear friend_ ".

Yeah, his dear dead _friend_ , buried in the ground and rotting, face probably long gone, crumbling to dust, maggots infesting what's left of-

He stops on the sidewalk and puts a hand over his eyes, has to breathe in deep.

Stop, _stop_.

Some of his anger gives way to a sort of exhausted hollowness, empty like the stretch of land where Dig's body lay.

He'd visited once, this memorial cemetery in Kentucky, and had looked out across the rolling hills, tried to count how many plaques were pressed into the wet ground.

He'd put some dirt from Dig's plot of land into his pocket; he'd never gone back.

He tells himself, calmer now, that he knows how Harvey gets when he's angry, that he knows how Harvey gets when he's drunk- how many of Harvey's stories begin with, "I was so wasted, I ended up fucking this..."

Prostitute, stripper, gymnast, cocktail waitress, dancer, artist, lawyer, nurse, actress, flight attendant, street performer, clown-and now, a treacherous voice says, Harvey can add _detective_ to the list.

Jim tells himself: Harvey'd gotten drunk, as usual, he'd gotten horny, as usual, and Jim was the nearest warm body, an unfortunate casualty in the war between Bullock and his libido.

Jim figures Harvey's just pissed Jim beat him to the "it didn't mean anything" punch.

He supposes that's Harvey's line.

Jim knows he's going to have to go back to the precinct eventually, apologize and let Harvey save face, but he doesn't know if _he_ can face it yet.

They're still at war.

He's still a soldier.

People in wars die all the time.

People get killed just heading out for supplies.

If he thinks real hard he can still feel Harvey's hand on his cheek.

You will not do this to yourself again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay guys! I've been working a lot so I haven't had much time to write.
> 
> There's about two chapters left. Enjoy the rest of the ride!

He gets back sometime before lunch and long after Harvey, paranoid and sick with guilt, had decided he'd probably never hear from Jim again.

Harvey doesn't know what he'd said, but the way Jim had gone white and shaking told Harvey he'd crossed a line, that he'd hit Jim in a sore spot.

When Gordon had stomped out and Harvey'd removed the foot from his mouth, he'd thought about going after the kid, but ultimately figured Gordon would come back eventually.

Harvey had found himself pacing the bullpen anyway, taunting the poor fucks in lock-up, driving everybody fucking crazy with his restlessness, his jittering fear.

He'd resigned himself to the notion that Gordon was drawing up a departmental transfer form, citing workplace sexual harassment as the reason for his request, when Jim comes through the door, looking smaller somehow than he'd seemed when he left.

Harvey doesn't call out to him, but only barely.

He doesn't look up as he threads his way through the precinct, and Harvey, shifting in his seat, starts devising a mental 'greatest hits' list of his best groveling tactics.

Gordon's only just reached their desks when Essen pops her head out of her office and barks, "You two, in here _now_ ," in a tone that brooks no arguments.

Jim shoots Harvey a look, a kind of weary irritation in his face, and Harvey can't decide if it's meant for him or Essen.

The both of them, probably.

The captain doesn't say much when they file into her office and stand before her desk like they've been sent to the principal for misbehaving, but she looks back and forth between them significantly.

"We having a problem here?" she says at last, a barely constrained edge to her voice.

"No ma'am, me and Jim here are just bosom buddies."

Harvey throws an arm around Jim for effect.

Gordon squirms minutely and   gives Essen about the fakest, most strained grin Harvey's ever seen.

Good sign.

Second Harvey releases him, Gordon steps away subtly, increasing the distance between them by a foot.

Essen raises an eyebrow, like she sees it too, but all she says is "I'm glad to hear it."

She breathes in sharply and Harvey recognizes is as her tell, which means Essen's preparing herself, _which_ means he's about to hear something he won't like.

He asks the universe for a flash flood.

"Listen you two, we got a call about... _suspicious activity_ around an auto repair shop by the docks. I want you to check it out."

"You want _us_ to-"

"Why?" Jim says over him, short.

She shuffles some papers on her desk.

"It's Maroni's territory, and the _anonymous_ tipster mentioned you specifically, Jim. Said you'd be interested. You want to guess who it sounded like?"

Harvey groans audibly, and Jim sighs heavily and shakes his head, hard lines by his mouth.

"Yeah, we'll go."

"Good."

Harvey looks between them.

"I don't recall getting a vote, how about we not walk into what's _surely_ a fucking trap-"

"Don't call me Shirley," Jim mutters.

_For fuck's sake._

"Alright," he snaps, throws his hands up.

He knows a peace offering when he hears one.

"I'll go, you don't have to twist my fucking arm about it-"

When Harvey follows Jim through the door, Essen rolls her eyes heavily at their backs.

\--

The silence in Harvey's car is so heavy he has to roll the windows down to even feel like he can breathe through its oppressiveness.

Gordon's in the passenger seat, taking his gun apart, taking his time.

Harvey gets lost twice on the way over and Jim doesn't say anything, doesn't even hold the map for him when Harvey starts spitting curses and screaming, "Where the hell are we, I've never _even_ seen this part of Gotham before j _esus christ-_ "

He finds the place eventually anyway and parks a block away, leaves the motor running.

The repair shop looms dark and foreboding, heavy somehow, like the gray sky above them.

Harvey takes one look at it and decides he's not going to go blindly walking to their deaths without at least trying for an apology.

"Jim," he says, takes his hands off the wheel and looks over at him, "Okay I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_ , I just got-What I said was uncalled for and not fucking fair and I didn't mean it, okay," he takes a breath, "-and I'm sorry for calling you Shirley too. That was a low blow-" which draws out a clearly hard won grin from Gordon, who shakes his head and looks out the window.

"It's fine, Harvey. Really."

He glances back at Harvey.

"It was a long time ago and- look it doesn't matter any more, you just caught me off guard. You're my friend-" and Harvey is thinking _again with that shit_ when Gordon grabs his arm and gasps, "Did you hear that?"

Harvey _had_ heard it, the unmistakeable crack of a gunshot from across the street.

They both barrel out of the car just as a figure appears in the doorway of the shop.

"Hey you!" Jim yells, pointing at the guy from behind their squad car.

"GCPD!" Harvey adds, in case it isn't clear from the patrol car and the fact that both of them practically ooze "cop" even out of uniform.

The figure disappears back into the shop and Harvey growls a "shit" as Jim takes off after him.

He follows, catches up to Gordon and grabs him by the arm, swinging him around.

They stop in the street.

"What's the plan here?" Harvey pants. "You gonna just walk in the front door, let whoever the hell's in there drop you before you cross the goddamn threshold?"

Jim blinks like he hadn't even thought of that and it scares Harvey more than the gunshot, more than the bad feeling rising in his gut.

Like that's how badly Harvey's thrown Jim off, the kid can't even watch his own back anymore.

He grabs Gordon by the shoulders and gives him a hard shake, more out of frustrated fear than anything else, and Jim shoves him away roughly.

"Get off me," he hisses, "I'll meet you around the back, then," and Gordon starts moving towards the right side of the building.

All Harvey can think is a litany of curses, which he continues mentally as he sidles around the left of the repair shop, ducking down under the windows as he moves.

The whole place is quiet as the grave and when he meets Jim in the back they're both wound tight with nerves.

The back door is painted a pale blue and peeling paint, doorknob rusted.

Gordon positions himself in front of it, and Harvey holds up three fingers.

He puts one down, then the other, and when the last one curls into his fist Gordon slams his foot into the door's weak spot with an unrestrained savagery.

Then they're in, guns drawn and crouched low.

The garage is painted in shadow, and stripped down cars loom out of the darkness like strange animals, hulking and silent.

"Cover me," Jim whispers and starts forward, Harvey at his flank.

Jim straightens and creeps down the side of the garage, the path to the darkened office clear.

Harvey sees him first, low and peeking around the doorway.

" _Down_ ," he howls and shoves Jim to the ground and over towards the nearest car for cover.

A gun goes off and Harvey feels like he's been punched in the chest, the breath knocked out of him.

He hits the concrete.

Dimly, he's aware of Jim yelling, his name maybe, and he knows he needs to move, needs to crawl over next to Jim, who's ducked behind the side of a Honda civic.

He feels very numb.

He drags himself over and looks up long enough to see Jim breathe out slow, face blank, then stand and shoot the assailant right between the eyes.

The guy crumples quick.

Harvey props himself up on the passenger side door and pops the top buttons off his shirt, gasping for breath.

Jim's next to him in a minute, eyes wild, saying, "Harvey, _Harvey_ ," in a small voice.

His hands are moving up Harvey's side, under his jacket, feeling for the bullet hole, when Harvey gives him a weak smile and tugs his jacket open wide enough for Jim to see the Kevlar underneath.

"Was early today, remember? Had time to put one on", he huffs, "First time for everything, huh?"

"Oh god," Jim says, voice breaking, words coming out squeaky and high.

He shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against Harvey's, breathing through his mouth.

"Jesus, Harvey," Gordon breaths, hot air ghosting across Harvey's lips like a caress.

It takes everything Harvey has not to kiss him, melt into the heat, the lust pooling low in him.

A minute from death and Harvey's already thinking about getting in Jim's pants, which would be funny if it wasn't striking him as so fucking _sad_  that he feels near breathless with loss _._

Jim puts his hands on Harvey's cheeks, thumb absently carding through the short hair over his ear and Harvey, capitalizing on whatever small weakness of Jim's this is, slides his arm around Gordon's side and places a warm hand on his lower back, rubs small circles and prays to god this will last just a minute more.

Harvey manages a weak, "it's okay, kid," but Jim sits with him like that for a long time after.

Harvey's a good _friend_ , he says he's grateful after Jim finally stops touching him, and he doesn't let his voice waver at all. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just about two chapters (give or take) left, including the epilogue.

Turns out the guy Jim killed is a petty drug smuggler by the name of Jacobi.

Jacobi had been running heroin for Maroni over the last six months, and it sure looks like it's Jacobi who killed the _other_ dead guy in the auto shop, a money launderer with known ties to Falcone.

Thing is, Falcone's man has a hole through his back an inch wide, and nobody can think why Jacobi would be stupid enough to start an all out war between Falcone and Maroni.

Jim takes one sidelong look at him while they stand over the body and Harvey knows he's thinking there's a third man involved too, one with a vested interest in forcing Maroni into a fight he can't win.

One with a limp and a decidedly _bird-like_ air.

Not that they'll ever be able to pin a damn thing on him, and Harvey's secretly glad Jim's quick enough to keep his mouth shut about it.

He knows it's eating at Jim though, that Jacobi was maybe running when they caught him, that he was maybe innocent of murder if nothing else.

The drawn pale look on Gordon's face makes him lean over and remind the kid, "He shot at us first, you know," but Gordon's strained smile doesn't wipe away any of the tension from around his eyes.

After back up arrives, the paramedics on scene give Harvey a quick once over, clearly not entirely enthused about it.

He's had run-ins with them before, not all of them pleasant, and many in varying degrees of sobriety.

Jim hovers around him while they speak to the responding officers, and when they stand over the body of Falcone's man, sprawled out in the shop's office, blood puddling around him and bits of bone and flesh splattered against the wall opposite, he presses in close to Harvey, like he's picturing _him_ in the dead guy's place.

Harvey can't think of a goddamn thing to say to ease whatever painful thing grabbed hold of Jim when Harvey first hit the ground, but he keeps knocking their shoulders together, trying to tell the kid " _I'm here, I'm here_."

They take his patrol car back to the station and Jim insists on driving, stoic and silent the entire time, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Harvey feels strange and keyed up, his hands are still shaking.

He can feel a bruise blossoming on his chest where the bullet hit the Kevlar and it throbs dimly.

He finds himself afraid of breaking the silence, like Jim is going to scream or cry or both.

Like if he opens his mouth something's going to come pouring out.

Harvey settles for wiping his sweating hands on his pants over and over.

It's dusk, sun fading away orange and purple, when they make it to the station and the place is half empty, a dull sleepiness in the air, settled over the officers at their desks.

Jim makes a beeline for the locker room and Harvey follows, shrugging off his suit jacket and yanking off his tie with one hand.

Once inside, they're alone between the rows of lockers and the dim lighting casts deep shadows on the concrete floor, hollowing out their faces and hiding their eyes.

Harvey slips off his holster and hangs it in his locker and when he turns around Jim is right in front of him, stripped down to his undershirt and looking like he'd rather be anywhere but where they are.

Harvey starts a little because _jesus_ he hadn't even heard the kid move- and he's resolutely trying not to read a damn thing into this.

"Jim?"

He says it like a question but he almost means it as a warning, because Gordon has a far away look in his eyes and his mouth is a hard line and Harvey has no idea what's about to happen.

Jim looks down, like he's been chastised, and reaches out, flicking open the top four buttons of Harvey's white dress shirt until it gapes open at his chest.

The movements are so precise, so efficient, it takes Harvey's brain an extra couple of seconds to realize what's happened.

He stops breathing.

Gordon ghosts his fingers across Harvey's collar bone and pulls his shirt aside, revealing the bruise from where the bullet slammed into him.

It's right over his heart, black blue and somehow smaller than Harvey feels it ought to be.

Harvey takes a shuddering breath when Jim slides his hand under his collar and puts his hand on Harvey's bare shoulder, pressing against the bruise with his thumb.

His other hand comes to the side of Harvey's neck and he trails his fingertips down to Harvey's breastbone, agonizingly slow.

The hand on Harvey's shoulder slips down and Jim's fingers slide over and over the bruise, touch light; his skin is so hot.

Harvey's breathing is fucking wrecked, ragged.

He's half hard and feels like he's drunk, head swimming with the smell of Jim's cologne, his sweat.

Gordon leans forward and presses his mouth against the bruise, lips soft.

His tongue darts out and licks across the tender skin and Harvey makes a short, aborted whimper.

And Harvey's aching, he almost fucking died, he just _wants_ with an intensity he's maybe never felt before, so when Jim raises his head Harvey puts an arm around his waist and a hand on the back of his neck and hauls him in.

He kisses him and Jim doesn't hesitate before he kisses back.

They kiss hungry and slow, dragging their mouths together, sucking each other's lips, tongues hot and sliding.

It feels so intimate Harvey feels physically hurt, he knows he'll pay for this later but he can't stop.

His hand cups Jim's cheek and Jim sighs into him, pressing in closer, their bodies flush against each other, and Gordon backs Harvey up against the cool metal of the lockers.

He seems just as incapable of stopping as Harvey does, and he's breathing heavily, making quick gasping inhales through his nose.

Harvey doesn't know how long they kiss, but a sound from the hallway finally startles them apart.

Two beat cops pass by the door to the locker room, speaking in low voices, and Harvey and Jim blink at each other in silence, waiting to be found out.

Jim looks shell shocked and wide eyed, a dull look on his face like he's been hit in the head and Harvey suspects he doesn't look much better. 

The voices from the hall fade away.

There's no relief in it, because Jim keeps staring and staring, like he doesn't know where they even are or why the fuck they just did what they did.

He's too weak, and too old to be hurt by some kid, but he is, he is.

Harvey knows what he wants.

Jim's playing at coy or innocent, he's playing at being wide eyed and out of his depth as though it will absolve him of a goddamn thing, and Harvey can't stand it, can't stand to look at it stark on Gordon's face anymore.

And suddenly he's angry.

He's just hurt and confused and bone tired, but anger has always been easy for Harvey and it's easy now, a well deep within him from which he can always inexhaustibly draw.

Harvey turns on his heel and slams the locker door shut, roughly buttoning his shirt back up with clumsy fingers.

He shoves past Gordon and snarls the only thing he can even think up before he makes it to the door.

"Come find me when you've figured out what the fuck _you_ want, kid."

He feels vindicated.

He feels wounded.

He feels like maybe he was shot after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied guys! The penultimate chapter was getting way too long so I decided to split it up.

Harvey leaves and Jim's legs practically buckle; he takes two stumbling steps and collapses onto one of the wooden benches sandwiched between each row of lockers.

He's breathing raggedly and he ducks his head down, covering his face with both hands.

Every moment with Harvey since their drunken _mistake_ has been fraught with a heavy tension, electricity on the air between them.

Jim had caught himself over and over again reaching out to touch, inching toward Harvey's body like a moth drawn towards a buzzing porch light.

Some bridge had been crossed, some line in the sand stepped over.

Jim doesn't think he can go back to the way things were.

Doesn't know if he wants to.

He'd never wanted Harvey before but he feels there's a need for him now, sharp and stabbing within him.

_Harvey, Harvey_ , like a chanted prayer.

Like phantom fingers in him are reaching out for Bullock, grasping, trying to catch hold.

Jim feels powerless in the face of it, he's not sure if it's lust or just a desperation for companionship, as if he's been deprived of it for years, as if he's been wandering in the desert without water.

He remembers how that feels though, truly, sand for miles, nothing to drink.

Mouth so dry he'd been afraid he'd swallow his tongue.

Thirst like needles in his throat.

Harvey's been looking like sweet lemonade, ice in the glass, condensation dribbling down the side of the cup.

Jim presses his fingers to his mouth and runs a hand over his head.

Bullock had immediately lunged for him, kissed him without pause or fear or regret.

_Call me when you've figured out what **you** want_.

As though what Harvey wants goes without saying, as though it's implicit in his actions.

Jim's not stupid, but the thought still knocks the breath from him: Harvey wants _him_.

There's a thrill in the realization, dark and gleeful.

The first time Dig fucked him, Jim had been hit with waves of incredulity, like whitecaps creating over his head.

Surprise that he was wanted, surprise that he wanted in return, half dizzy with it.

Dig had ran his big hands up his thighs and startled a moan out of Jim, and at the sound Jim had marveled, as though he'd discovered some shadowed part of himself, as though suddenly party to a delicious secret.

Even days after he'd found himself breaking into a wild grin at odd moments, electrified by the thought of what he'd- _they'd_ done, what Dig's mouth had felt like, this strange and giddy reinvention of self.

Some of that same stomach-dropping dizziness rolls over him on the bench.

He thinks without meaning to of Harvey smiling lazily, bending Jim over the kitchen counter, kissing leisurely up his spine, taking his time, thrusting slow and sweet.

A pragmatic portion of his mind posits: in their profession the turn over rate is high.

His foot begins to tap in agitation.

Anger bubbles up, surfacing through layers of helplessness and dread, lava hot and energizing.

If they're going to die eventually then, isn't Jim _owed_ some _small_ recompense?

Didn't he pay _adequately_ for his few months of happiness in the sandy sea of the dead and dying?

And fucking furthermore, won't he gladly pay again for whatever this amounts to, weeks, months of _Harvey-Harvey-Harvey-_

Maybe Jim will die first this time.

Jim stands, sighs several times, shakes out his hands, and shifts from foot to foot like he's about to trudge out onto a dusty baseball diamond, like he's psyching himself up for the big game.

_Ok_ , he thinks, _I can do this._

Okay, _okay_ , as though a light has flickered on at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

He shakes his head like a wet dog and bounces in place.

McCreedy, a buffoonish officer with a brutish face flings the door to the locker room open like a gale force wind, pausing as soon as he sees Jim.

Jim stops bouncing.

They blink at each other.

McCreedy continues to stare as though he's caught Jim in the midst of an interpretive dance routine.

"Alright, McCreedy," Jim cracks, "Nothing to see here."

He sounds like Harvey.

-

In the time Jim's been inside the rain has come and gone, streets slick with it.

It's quiet out, the humidity is heavy on his skin like a wet blanket.

His phone is in his hand.

The night sky lies over head, obscured by clouds.

Jim dials Harvey's number and Bullock picks up after four rings.

"I'm coming over," Jim says.

If he's nervous, he certainly doesn't show it.

_Okay, okay_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, but there's just the epilogue after this. Thanks for sticking with me!

Harvey hangs up the phone and begins desperately ripping his apartment apart in a largely futile bid to find his glasses.

He can't see little things for shit, which means he can't properly clean without his glasses, and he _has to_ fucking clean because Jim is on his way over to the hellhole Harvey lives in and he's probably going to take one step inside and slowly back away in horror.

It looks like he's taken up residence inside a dumpster, wrappers and trash all over the floor, case files piled haphazardly in towering stacks, day old coffee cups leaking on every surface.

He trips over a cardboard box on his way to the pantry, and he can't remember when, where, or why he got it.

Harvey settles for chucking large armfuls of trash and things that may or may not be trash but he can't be arsed to find out into a blue recycling bag.

He doesn't recycle as a general rule, and if he's ever asked to he loudly dismisses recycling as 'commie propaganda', but he buys the bags because he thinks it makes him look good in front of the cute teenage cashier at his favorite bodega.

He stuffs the bulging garbage bag down the trash chute and stumbles back to his apartment to run a lint roller over his filthy sofa, scraping off bits of dirt and plucking up hairs he knows arent all his.

He has a Murphy bed and he takes care of that next, straightening the sheets and then breaking into a sweat as he lifts it up and shoves it into the wall compartment.

He steps back tentatively with both hands outstretched, ready to catch the damn thing if falls outward.

It had beaned him once after he thought he'd stowed it away, and he'd come to on the floor with blood in his mouth.

He'd been completely wasted of course, and broke into tears right there on the floor, forehead bruised and bleeding and a terrible emptiness in him, no one to even call.

The thing sticks this time, which is altogether basically a fucking miracle.

Harvey has time to shove his dirty dishes into the dishwasher in a precarious pile, water the dying plants he has molding on the patio, and change into a clean gray t-shirt before there's a knock at the door.

Halfway to the front of his apartment, he sticks a hand in his pocket and finds his glasses there.

He puts them on even though he's a little bit embarrassed about them, even though they make him feel old.

At least they're red.

He takes two sharp inhales through his nose and then opens the door.

Jim stands there in his coat and tie, self conscious half-smile on his face.

"Hey," he says, maybe flushing slightly, though in the shitty lighting it's hard to tell.

"Hey," Harvey says, stepping back to let him through.

He feels like there's a writhing mass of worms in his gut, stomach flipping over with nerves.

He belatedly realizes he's supposed to be angry, but he's not anymore.

Just near crazed with apprehension and heavy with an impending feeling of loss.

Harvey knows this is Gordon's attempt to set things straight, to end whatever's come between them.

He won't fight it.

Jim's standing in the living room, blinking around and subtly studying the place.

This is the first time he's been in Harvey's apartment, and now Harvey can see everything he missed in his hurried attempt to spruce the place up.

There's dust on the tv stand, grit in the carpet.

The walls are bare, no pictures or posters up, no flare.

He's sees it through Jim's eyes and the place looks small and empty, cheap lamps, furniture he found on the street.

It's sad and he's embarrassed, sudden and shameful.

"The view's decent," he says, because he can't think of anything to say that won't make him seem more pathetic, that will keep Jim from seeing the narrowness of his life.

Harvey comes home to an empty box, drinks himself blind, fucking _drowning_ in it, and passes out on the couch, relief in the hours in which there's only darkness and quiet.

Logically he knows Jim can't see this written in the walls of Harvey's living room, but he can see some of it and the rest Harvey figures he can guess.

He begins mentally planning how much he'll have to drink after Jim leaves in order to black out the evening.

He probably has enough.

Jim says, "Do you mind if I-?" and Harvey waves a hand as if to say, "Do what you want."

Gordon shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the end of the couch, then sits down.

He stands up again.

He sits down.

Harvey's leaning on the doorframe watching him, silently debating whether he should speak first.

The kid's wound up tight, and perversely Harvey wants him to suffer, wants this to hurt Jim as much as it's going to hurt him.

Eventually Harvey settles for a significant, "You _rang_ , Mr. Musical Chairs?"

Jim has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Yeah I-" he starts, stops, passes a hand over his face.

"You got something to drink?"

"It's like you don't even know me," Harvey says, stepping into the kitchen and snatching the cheapest bottle of vodka he has.

There's a smug victory in handing it over, the shit tastes like floor cleaner, but Jim takes it without comment and gulps down two large slugs.

He hands it back and Harvey swallows a mouthful, tries not to think about Jim's mouth on the rim, how Harvey puts his lips right over the space where Jim touched the glass.

He's so fucking far gone.

Jim sits down on the couch, visibly relaxing a little.

"Can you sit down?" He asks, peering up at Harvey, "You're making me nervous."

Harvey sits down on the other of the couch, as far away from Gordon as he can get.

If he had his way, he'd be out in the hallway for this conversation, not close enough to reach out and touch Jim if he wanted.

"I'm here to talk about this," Jim says, quietly determined, hands braced on his knees.

Harvey leans back against the cushions and crosses his arms.

"I'm all ears."

Jim frowns, he can read Harvey's body language just as easily as Harvey can read his, but he plows on regardless.

"I've known you for a while now, Harv."

"Have you now?"

Jim's face falls flat, clearly no longer willing to humor Harvey's passive aggression.

"I have."

"Oh yeah? What's my mothers name?" Harvey snaps, like a petulant child.

"I don't know, you never told me," Gordon grinds out, brow wrinkling.

"Yeah, maybe that's because I didn't think you'd give a shit."

"Harvey, _why would_ I give a shit about your mother's name?"

"You know, that's so like you, Jim, that's so like you, a guy takes a bullet for you and you pay him back by not even caring about his dear sweet mother-"

"Harvey, _dammit_ -"

"It's Lila, by the way-"

"For god's-"

"I give a shit about _your_ mother's name-"

"Harvey for Christ's sake just let me talk! What the fuck are you doing? My mother? Jesus, _what_?!"

Harvey stares resolutely across the room.

"You make everything so difficult," Jim drops his head into his hands.

"Listen I came here because I want to do this."

Harvey shakes his head and snarls, "Do what? Tell me I'm just your bestest friend in the world and gee, Harvey we should be trading friendship bracelets, not hand jobs?"

"No! No, dammit, I want to do this, whatever this is!"

"Like hell you do," Harvey says, halfway out of his seat, but Jim grabs his arm and holds tight.

"I do," he says, earnest and intense, holding Harvey's incredulous stare with a direct gaze.

He gives Harvey's arm a small shake.

"I do. Whatever this thing between us is, I can't fight it and I don't want to."

Harvey's still frozen between sitting and standing, legs locking in an awkward squat.

"You're my partner," Jim says, and puts a palm on his chest, gently pushes him down into the couch.

He gets up and kneels between Harvey's legs, hands warm on Harvey's thighs.

Gordon looks up at him.

"Let me be _yours_."

He unbuckles Harvey's belt and unzips his fly, slips Harvey's rapidly hardening cock from his briefs.

Harvey puts a tentative hand on the side of Jim's face, and Jim looks up at him as he licks a hot stripe up Harvey's cock, filthy straight out of Harvey's wet dreams.

Harvey makes a strangled noise and Jim responds by wrapping a hand around the base of him and bringing him into his mouth.

Vaguely he hears himself make humming, throaty noises as Jim's mouth works, but he's incapable of thinking anything but a broken chant of, _"oh god, Jim."_

Jim swirls his tongue around the tip of Harvey's cock and he's dribbling pre-cum, Jim using it to lube his fingers.

It's so slick and hot Harvey thinks he's going to cum far too quick, but he's not convinced he's going to have a chance at Jim again.

He fists his hands in Jim's lapels and hauls him up, crushes their mouths together and tastes himself on Jim's tongue.

He grabs Jim's ass and Jim practically grinds into his hands, Gordon wraps an arm around his neck and chokes, "I want-Harvey-", desperate and whining with it.

Harvey gets his shirt off him and Jim starts on his pants, shimmying out of his clothes and boxers and climbing up to straddle Harvey's lap.

Harvey sticks two fingers in his mouth to wet them and growls out, "How long's it been since-?"

And Jim, breathy and pink and fucking gorgeous, stutters, "I keep- I sometimes- Barbara had a-a- and we used it when I... _wanted_ ," which is a mental image Harvey's going to fucking cherish and use for later, multiple times probably, Jim keening and Barbara giving it to him good.

He scrabbles in the side table by the couch for a half empty bottle of lube and squirts some into his hand, coating his fingers with it.

He doesn't know how many times he's used the bottle, alone, drunk on the couch and thinking of Jim.

Harvey eases his fingers into him and Jim's eyes shut, he makes a small, whimpered "Mmm."

"Do you want-" Harvey starts but Jim just growls "Yes," low and demanding and Harvey's cock throbs like he's liable to be a two pump chump.

He removes his fingers and Jim leans over and grabs his pants from the floor, shakes them out and pulls a condom from his wallet.

"Always prepared, like a Boy Scout," Harvey says, a little hoarse, and Jim grins, opens the packet, and rolls it down the length of Harvey's cock like they've got all the time in the world.

"You complaining?"

"I've never once complained in my life," and Jim laughs into his mouth, kisses him with his palm soft on Harvey's cheek.

Gordon shifts up on to his knees and sinks down on to Harvey and Harvey says, " _Jim_ ," like it's been ripped out of him.

Jim starts up a slow rhythm and Harvey puts his arms around the kid and holds on.

Harvey's eyes are shut and Jim keeps kissing him and making small little whimpers, noises that go straight to Harvey's cock.

He moves his hands to Jim's hips and he can't help it, he can't shut up, he just chokes out "Jim, Jim, Jim" over and over like he's begging for mercy.

" _God_ ," Jim gasps when Harvey finally wraps a hand around his dick and moves in time with his thrusts, fast and nearly erratic, losing control.

"Cum Jim," Harvey manages, "Cum for me," and Jim moans "Harvey" so sweetly that Harvey tumbles over the edge, sudden, with a rumbled "god-"

Jim follows a moment after, tipping his head back and groaning low in his throat.

Harvey licks a line up Gordon's neck as he comes down, panting and clenching around Harvey in little twitching contractions.

Jim eases off Harvey and collapses next to him on the couch, naked, sweat on his forehead.

Harvey waits until his breathing evens out and says, "I need a fucking smoke," and Jim nods, a little breathless, "Like you need a hole in the head."

-

They're in their underwear on his patio, smoking off the railing and breathing in the cool night air.

The city moves beneath them, sparkling like it's been freshly scrubbed. Sirens scream past in periodic intervals, sometimes they can hear a shout, or the rush of traffic.

It's sprinkling warm summer rain and steam rises up from the streets in hazy plums.

"Not your first time," Harvey says, tapping ash onto the concrete.

Jim sighs and shakes his head.

"No, but you're only the second guy."

Harvey rests his arms on the railing and leans out over the edge.

"You wanna tell me about the first?"

Jim rubs a hand over his head and goes quiet for so long Harvey thinks he's not going to answer.

Finally he says, "His name was Dig. In the army. I- I had feelings for him."

Harvey blows smoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Name like that, how could you resist?"

Gordon's eyes widen but he laughs like he can't quite keep it inside, shoves Harvey with both hands.

"Asshole."

Harvey grins out at the city, then sobers, asks, "He died?" as kindly as he's able.

Jim nods, takes a long drag and then flicks the cigarette over the side.

"Yeah," he says, looking at Harvey, "He died."

Harvey tosses his smoke over the railing.

"I'm not gonna die, kid."

"I don't believe that."

"No," Harvey scrubs a hand through his hair, "Neither do I."

Someone on the street laughs, a sharp sound, and for a moment they hear the hum of a radio from far off.

"You able to live with that?" Harvey asks.

"Yeah. I think so."

"Good."

Harvey pushes himself off the railing and straightens up.

"Now come inside, I'm freezing out here."

-

Next day they leave Harvey's apartment at separate times, arrive at the precinct alone.

Jim's got his shirt buttoned all the way up, bruises peeking over the top of his collar like purple suns on a white horizon.

"Jimbo!" Harvey exclaims, the gentle mocking in his tone apparently solely to Gordon, "You get laid yesterday?"

He leans across his desk and presses a fingertip to the edge of a hickey, and Jim bats his hand away like he's swatting a fly.

"Yeah. You and _your hand_ have a good time last night?"

Harvey winks at him.

"We always do."

Gordon ducks his head behind his computer monitor, shoulders shaking.

"You smiling, Jim Gordon?" Harvey asks, low, only for Jim this time.

"Never," Jim says, grin wide.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for reading! I sincerely hope you enjoyed this fic!

It's not a fairy tale.

Over the years they'll circle each other, collide over and over again.

Harvey will fuck different people.

Jim will tell other women he loves them.

When Barbara tells him she's pregnant, it's Harvey he calls.

When Jim makes Captain, then Commissioner, he and Harvey celebrate with champagne, sex.

Barbara dies screaming in childbirth, Jim comes over red eyed and Harvey blows him after he's done crying.

Harvey's the first person Jim will let hold his day old daughter.

Later, Harvey calls Barbara Jr. 'Junior' for short, brings her presents and teaches her to how to fight dirty.

He calls Jim "daddy" mockingly until Jim ties him down and makes him moan it.

When the Bat fuck shows up, they spend late nights chasing 911 calls and bat sightings, picking up perps that are tied up for them like presents.

He'll get a new partner, more than one.

He'll meet every single one of Jim's girlfriends, and Jim will introduce him as "my best friend, Harvey."

He'll be the one Jim runs to when they break up.

Harvey will go to every single dance recital, piano performance, and parent-teacher night Barbara ever has.

And when he's old, when he can't be a cop anymore, can't be in Gotham a second longer, he'll retire, take a boat to somewhere bright, a cozy cabin by the lake.

Jim will drive him to the dock the day he leaves for good.

"We'll always have Gotham," Harvey will say, wry.

Jim's smile will only be slightly bitter, only slightly despairing.

He'll ask Jim to come even though he knows he won't.

Harvey will say "visit me then" and that, Jim _will_ do, when he can.

Those times Jim comes to see him they'll eat and play cards, share the bed.

Jim will tug on the ends of Harvey's hair and say "it's getting long, old man. You need a cut," and Harvey will tell him he's going for the 'Willie Nelson' look.

Jim will laugh.

In the morning he'll leave, wave from the driveway, and Harvey will watch his car until it's just a speck on the horizon.

It'll be okay.

It will be enough for Harvey.

And maybe, if they're lucky, Jim will get the city cleaned up enough for him to be able to let it go.

That day comes, he'll visit Harvey's cozy cabin by the lake.

That day comes, Jim will have his suitcase with him, and he'll stay.


End file.
